


Syndrome's Syndrome

by Izzy_Dur



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Capture, I'm your biggest fan, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Dur/pseuds/Izzy_Dur
Summary: Syndrome finally has Elastigirl right where he wants her, now... what to do, what to do? Let's find out.
Kudos: 5





	Syndrome's Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> A semi-character piece of Syndrome, one of Disney’s best villains. He had a very typical backstory and motivation, pretty standard, but it was his character and his mannerisms that set him apart from the others. Really enjoyable character with many rememberable lines, I need to look up more works about him.

He just couldn’t stop watching it. Over and over again, his pointing finger would press the button, now attuned to his actions, and like magic, the video would perfectly rewind itself 6.2 seconds, back to that perfect scene. Back to that moment in time that had him damn near paralyzed, even though he was unfortunately limited to viewing it through the several computer screens, at least forty of them, joined together.

_Once more._

_Okay, once more…._

_Just… yeah, once more._

_Last one._

_Last one after this one, actually._

He kept telling himself that the previous one would be it, that he would finally stop, that he would peel himself away from what he couldn’t touch nor experience and get on with the greater goal at hand. But he knew he was lying, and he was quite okay with that, more than okay actually, because he had been wearing the dopiest, intoxicated smile for the past half hour now, admittedly lost within his screens and not caring for much else.

How could he? What else _was_ there to even care about right now? There was nothing. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing at all… except _her_. The woman with brunette hair fixed in a luxurious bob and dressed in that skin-tight red outfit… oh sweet Lord above, he would have to track down that elusive Edna Mode and personally give her his undying thanks, because there was no one else in the world who could have crafted that Supersuit—not like that, not to _those_ precise proportions that hugged every nook and cranny so perfectly.

_One more time._

_Okay, two more times._

_You know what, why not make it an even four and be fair to myself?_

His finger met the button again and the scene rewound itself, the screens flickered, and then he was watching Elastigirl stealthily sneaking through one of the many underground tunnels that ran throughout his private island. He had to give the seasoned Super her credit, mostly due to the fact that she had managed to remain undetected for as long as she did—and when she _did_ happen to be spotted, she took out his guards like they were little more fodder. Admittedly, that’s all that they were, but still, impressive. His eyes traced her every movement, taking in the way she strode, bent, punched, ducked… even the cute little way she exhaled when she was annoyed.

Those were the things he noticed, but what caught his undying attention and demanded several hundred repeat viewings was when Elastigirl had just dropped from the ceiling, only to, mere seconds later, happen across a mirror, and when she did, he watched as she stared at herself, saw the way her eyes traveled down that luscious form, and then she shifted her weight, jostling her massive ass into view. Now nearly gnawing into his bottom lip, he stared with eyes both wide and red with strain—he stared as she ran one of her lithe hands over the wide curve of her booty, and when she looked subtly affronted by what she felt, as if having a large, delicious ass was an egregious thing, he almost groaned.

This woman was the very definition of sexy, and he had to affirm that fact by watching the clip repeatedly, going back to the beginning to watch the way she tilted her hips, the way she sensually rubbed herself, the way she eyed her plump rear like it had done her a personal wrong merely by existing….

_Just a couple more times._

_Why is there no other angle for this?_

_One more time, really._

_After that last one, I meant._

_Really need to get another angle somehow—_

“Syndrome!” called a deeply vexed voice, and here came the annoyed click-clack of heels over the steel-plated flooring. “ _Still_?”

Unfortunately, in this world there existed others who just didn’t want to see a man enjoy himself, and Syndrome slouched in his chair, eyes rolling, mouth opening with a heavy-hearted sigh. “It can’t possibly have been more than ten minutes, Mirage,” he groaned as a wasp-thin woman, who was the very antithesis of everything great about Elastigirl, came up on his side and slammed a perfectly manicured hand down on the security console.

“You asked for ten minutes, I gave you _fifteen_ ,” she told him harshly, not even bothering to glance up at the perverted video now rewinding itself independently of Syndrome’s actions. “If I had known that _this_ ”—she indicated at the screens—“is what you needed time for, I wouldn’t have agreed to it to begin with! Sir, you’re wasting time!”

“Why, Mirage, really? This is how you act? This is how you treat the person who saved your life?” Syndrome placed a hand over his chest with a faux look of the deepest hurt. “After I saved you from the iron clutches of that brute, Mr Incredible?”

Mirage sucked her teeth, glowering down at the vertically-challenged, red-haired man before her, the man who happened to be her boss, the man who—and her lips became a tight frown—had indeed saved her life just yesterday, and she could see by the way he was leveling her with that smug little half-grin that he knew he had struck a nerve.

Yesterday, caught up in one of Syndrome’s more resilient traps, even the infallible Mr. Incredible and all his strength couldn’t escape the magnetic bonds that restrained him, which is probably where the overwhelming sense of hubris came from, the fog that clouded Syndrome’s common sense while he gloated over the destruction of the jet that carried Mr. Incredible’s family. A folly to be paid for, although even now, Mirage couldn’t explain what made her push Syndrome out of the way when pure rage drove Mr. Incredible to bend himself out of the magnetic stasis that held him. When those ludicrously powerful arms snapped around her instead, Mirage already figured she was dead. Mr. Incredible was widely regarded as one of the most powerful Supers to exist back in the day, and her? A toothpick, as he put it. Hopefully, she prayed in the moment, when he broke her in two, it would be quick and painless.

“ _Now that’s no way to treat a lady,_ ” she recalled Syndrome saying before flicking a button on his wrist gauntlet. “ _Manners, manners, who's got some manners?”_

Something like an electric current ran through Mr. Incredibles restraints, the pain so furious that he let loose a roar more beast than anything before unceremoniously dropping Mirage to the walkway. Syndrome was there in a flash, covering her frail, shaken figure with his cloak and guiding her away.

“I saved you in less than ten seconds, surely that equates to ten minutes,” he bargained with her now, and he made a face that looked wholly out of place on him, half pouting, half sadistic. “Please?”

Even though Mirage was but a piece of railing compared to the woman still doing recorded loops on the monitors, there was nothing yielding whatsoever in the way she stood. She held no sway, no give, not one ounce of sympathy for the forlorn Supervillain, and she showed as much by sighing with great annoyance. “No.” She indicated to the clipboard in her hand by giving it a couple of impatient taps. “You’re putting us behind schedule, sir. Look here—see? 8:30 to 8:45, ‘gloat to captured Super family’, theeeen… 9:00 on the _dot_ is ‘launch the Omnidroid’—and look what time it is!”

She pointed a very lean, very crisp finger at the clock on Syndrome’s desk. He didn’t look, not because he knew full well they were so off schedule he would more than likely have to put it off until tomorrow, but because an idea had just fell into his mind, an idea that slowly brought his gaze back up to the screen.

He stared. And he stared some more.

“Sir!” Mirage called. “The plan!”

“Tomorrow, Mirage,” he told her soothingly, almost robotically, while waving a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Because he wasn’t looking, Syndrome completely missed the scandalized look that fell over Mirage’s face moments before she glanced down at her clipboard, spastically flipping through several pages. “T-tomorrow?” she repeated shrilly, losing every ounce of sultry charm that usually enveloped her like a second skin. She slapped her clipboard like a teacher might rap a chalkboard with a ruler. “Sir—you—we can’t just say _tomorrow_ and expect it to be—”

Syndrome rose to his feet with all the power of the sun rising, which, admittedly didn’t look all that impressive considering Mirage still towered over him, but the movement was sudden enough to bring her lips together as Syndrome turned to face her.

“Oh, yes it can,” he told her simply, yet his words carried a force behind them, the same kind of immovable force that had made all of this—the island, his projections, his inventions, his goals—possible. “You see, I speak it, it happens. That’s the wonderful little order of things around here. So, draft up the notice all nice and pretty like and afterwards, you can take the rest of the day off, Mirage. Enjoy it, everything after is going to be very touch and go and I’ll need you by my side in peak condition throughout all of it.”

Seeing Syndrome this way, standing as tall as he was able with one hand on his hip and looking every bit the CEO she knew him to be brought Mirage’s anxiety levels down to tolerable levels and, although she still wasn’t pleased, she _was_ enamored by the show and set about scribbling on her clipboard. “Hrm, okay….And you? What will you be doing, sir?”

“Me?” A sinister chuckle left Syndrome and his shoulders quivered with laughter. He pressed a different button on the table and the view of Elastigirl’s bodacious rear subsided into a semi-lit chamber, one showcasing five Supers restrained within one of Syndrome’s magnetic holding fields. “I’m going to go introduce myself properly to Elastigirl.”

The roll of her eyes was slight but Mirage made no mention of it, only nodding in response as her scribbling became more erratic, going over all the plans for what was supposed to be a big day and realigning them to better match tomorrow’s schedule, which meant tomorrow’s meetings and appearances had to be changed, and so did the day after and so on and so on. It was really all so troublesome and a major load of work, but Mirage was a woman of immense class and ability. This wouldn’t take her longer than a couple hours.

It’s why Syndrome chose her. He required the best, and she gave it to him.

“As you say, sir.”

The moment Syndrome and Mirage parted ways down one of the long winding tunnels of his base, the professionalism and haughty atmosphere bled out of him like air from a popped balloon and his mind was immediately filled with lecherous thoughts, of images so perverted that he couldn’t help but adopt a drunken grin. He didn’t exactly know what he was going to do concerning Elastigirl—because, really, the possibilities were endless with her bound as she was—but Syndrome would be lying to himself if he said no amount of splendor remained within for the heroes of yesterday.

True, he yearned to destroy them and abolish the term ‘Superhero’ altogether as the very foundation of being one, of others being inspired by them, of others simply _relying_ on them, was corroded where he stood, but… the magic from back then, he could freely admit that it was pure nostalgia that had him feeling somewhat giddy as he took a left, strolled through a pair of steel double doors, and finally stepped out onto the thin walkway that led to the wide, magnetic holding field.

The room was an eye-searing white, purposefully designed to throw off one’s senses, and as Syndrome didn’t feel like accidentally teetering over the edge of the walkway—which had happened numerous times in the past (thank God for rocket boots)—he lifted a hand and gave his fingers a single, echoing snap. As if preconditioned, the lights dimmed to a more calming shade, creating a more fitting atmosphere, until the blue magnetic lines withholding the Super family bathed the entirety of the room in a cool afterglow.

“Well, well, well!” he began, clapping like a ringmaster about start a grand show, and, truth be told, with the elastic prize before him, he felt like it. There was no hiding the growing smile on his lips, and he didn’t even bother trying to keep it friendly or misleading. Because why? There was no point now. He had won, and it pleased him to see the glowering look of disgust that formed over Mr. Incredible’s face.

“ _Syndrome_!” the overly muscular hero barked out, exactly as Syndrome expected, and the harsh noise only widened his smile. “You mangy little—”

“Oh, there’s nothing little about me, Mr. Incredible,” Syndrome cut in, chuckling. “There hasn’t been anything little about me since I stepped out from under your shadow.”

Syndrome’s words, however callous and throwaway, were aimed toward the heated, patriarchal figure of the Super family, but his eyes… they were fixated on the stunningly alluring Elastigirl, who stared down at him with such contempt it was almost mind-boggling how one could fit so much dislike into a single glance. And Syndrome had to come to an internal epiphany when he found himself growing excited being seared under her gaze.

Due to her restraints, with the way the magnetic bonds restrained and tilted her forward, Elastigirl had the high ground, not by much, but enough so that Syndrome had to incline his head somewhat to stare into that beautiful face. There was a certain comfort to be found underneath her; and he simply figured that’s where he belonged as the tall naturally towered over the small, but in this case… in this one special case… it had nothing to with height and everything to do with sheer dominance. Syndrome had been with his fair share of women, they came damn near kit and parcel with the prestige, with the money and wealth his business brought in, and he indulged.

Heavily.

Perhaps too heavily.

So he was no fool when it came to receiving certain stares, whether specifically called for or otherwise, and the one Elastigirl was aiming down her cute little nose, why, it was a glare straight from the heart.

“—then you’ve got another thing coming!” Bob had just finished yelling, and the way his chest heaved let Syndrome know he had missed quite a fair bit of whatever declaration of defiance had just been tossed out.

“Yeah!” came the little blonde kid, Dash or whatever, eager to agree with his father as he struggled fruitlessly against his bonds. “So let us go and take this butt whoopin’, shorty!”

Chuckling, Syndrome interlaced both hands behind his back, the very picture of patience. “Well, if he isn’t just the blonde spitting image of his dear old dad,” Syndrome mused.

“I’d spit on you if you’d just get closer—” Dash struggled, but just then a twine of magnetic energy peeled away from the portion above Dash and snaked itself around his neck. “Huh…?”

“Unfortunately,” and an ominous shadow fell over Syndrome’s manically smirking face, “I don’t think you two are teaching this little wannabe Superhero the manners he needs to know! Here, allow me to help.”

Amassing the kind of wealth that Syndrome had, and doing the things that he did to obtain that wealth, he was no stranger to watching Superhero’s die. They died all the time fighting the different iterations of his robots, each one falling in some gruesome or grisly manner and Syndrome merely “Hmmm”ing as he made little notes here and there about improvements for the next one he would craft later.

And with dead Supers came, naturally, the grief-stricken family of a dead Super. And Syndrome was no animal, lacking code or morality. With every Super that his robots killed, he made sure to attend that Super’s funeral. Oh sure, he had to pay a pretty penny like all other officials to gain access as Super funerals were normally private affairs, but it was a price he was willing to pay as it provided him a lot of opportunities.

Dressed in one of his many tailor-made suits of white or black, Syndrome gained insight to that particular Super’s psyche through their friends and family and by listening to the eulogies telling him what that Super enjoyed doing on their down time or what they liked to read. Every inch of it was information that Syndrome absorbed and dissected with a carefully crafted somber face as he sat between those who personally knew and loved the deceased Super, as he sat between those who had no idea the murderer was well within arms reach and pretending to exude sympathy.

Meeting other Supers, the ones who had yet to face his creations, was only the second most important part of the entire process, because as Syndrome found out, it was shockingly easy to glean information about their powers while they were so inebriated with grief. All it usually took was a prodding question here about how they and the deceased used to hang out and that would snowball into stories about how they used their powers and the like, and Syndrome would smile and nod and offer condolences more hollow than his care for the loss of life they were supposed to be honoring.

All of that was fairly useless information, truth be told, but it served to highlight the lengths that Syndrome reached to create the ultimate, unbeatable robot. Not that it took hours of research and reconnaissance to see that, to Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl, their achilles heel lay with their kids.

So when Syndrome inconspicuously flicked a button on one of his wrist gauntlets, and when Dash’s mouth wrenched itself open in a piercing scream, he anticipated the horror that lit up both the elder Super’s faces.

“DASH!”

“DASH BABY—NO—”

“STOP!” And his sister, the long-haired, emotionally unstable Violet, she had quite the set of lungs on her. “STOP IT RIGHT NOW!”

All three of the other Supers that made up this loving family were shouting, both at the writhing boy and at Syndrome, but for all the good it did, they might as well have remained silent. Syndrome was no stranger to the heart-breaking, gut-wrenching cries of his victims; he lost no sleep after listening to the Supers he lured to his island gurgle their last after being bested by one of his robots. He wasn’t deranged enough to find enjoyment in it, that kind of goofy sadism belonged to the comic books; he just lacked sympathy. There was no place for it in this new Superhero-free world he was striving to create.

Only once little Dash’s body began to seize up out of his control did Syndrome give his gauntlet another subtle flick. The agonized screams instantly gave way to labored panting; there were tears glistening in Dash’s reddened eyes, running in streams down his cheeks; his body hang so limply now in a sharp contrast to earlier when he was struggling with all the might he possessed.

“Now then,” and Syndrome brought his palms together with a playful energy, rubbing them together and looking between the other Supers who weren’t struggling to breathe, “anybody else care to threaten me with their vile bodily fluids? I got manners for days, enough for everybody.”

“How _dare_ you,” Mr. Incredible growled through teeth so ground together it was a miracle they didn’t crack.

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ … how dare _I_?” Syndrome repeated, looking shot, with a hand over his chest. “Oh, come _on_! How dare I? How dare _he_ ,” he countered, indicating toward the younger blonde Super, the one involuntarily twitching in mid-air and silently sobbing. “The lack of manners, the absolute hubris! He wanted to _spit_ on my person! Back me up, Elastigirl, you get where I’m coming from, right?”

Not that he actually expected anything in the way of agreement, it was still titillating to see the look etched over Elastigirl’s face. She glared at him like he was the most revolting thing to ever crawl into existence, like he were little more than garbage; and he knew why, because he had just harmed one of her precious kids. Having studied her for so long, the dark lines that her scowl brought out so prominently over her gorgeous face, it wasn’t hatred… he hadn’t done anything thus far to warrant that, and Elastigirl was a kind soul at heart. Firm and resolute, but kind.

It was a delicate tightrope to walk, to get her to see him as worthy of being a high-level threat without bringing her to the point of hating him. If she got out of her bonds she would most definitely attempt to throttle him, as any good mother would, but that would be the end of it, a throttling, then handing him over to the authorities. That’s what he was looking at now, if she escaped. If he had kept the current going through her loudmouth son for another five seconds, he likely would have been rendered paralyzed, or his eyes could have popped from their sockets. No doubt, that would have led to the kind of hatred there was no finding forgiveness within, the kind that would most certainly have Elastigirl wanting to take his life.

For what he had planned, he needed a proper dislike, something salvageable, and judging by the way Elastigirl’s nostrils were so cutely flared, he had incensed her—oh, yes, she was very, very miffed—but he had not yet earned her everlasting wrath.

“Oh, come now, cat got your tongue?” Syndrome questioned childishly, taking a few simple steps in her direction. “I know that’s not how the parental Elastigirl raised her kids to be, right? Lil’ spit cannons?”

“You foul little cockroach!” Violet hissed from next to her brother, causing Syndrome to cut his eye ever so slowly in her direction. “You just wait until we get out of this!”

And he could see the poor girl was trying to activate her powers, both her invisibility and the nifty force fields she could conjure, but she kept coming up short with aggravated grunts. Mostly because Syndrome figured her force fields would more than likely be able to negate the magnetic chains around her, or probably all of them, which led him to increase the voltage around her whenever she struggled or her heartbeat spiked.

“I believe… I was talking to your mother,” Syndrome replied with that well-practiced goodwill, the same tone he would use at a Supers’ funeral, and he lifted his wrist. “Let’s see who can scream the highest, shall we? Your brother, or you.”

He had only placed his finger over the button when that angelic voice rang out for the first time: “Wait!”

Finger hovering, Syndrome returned his attention to Elastigirl, who he saw looked fifty shades of anxious. Her brow was furrowed, he could see an untold number of plans sprinting laps around her mind, all the chaos there made it hard to think, she had to save her kids—but how?

“And there it is,” Syndrome said with a hearty chuckle, “the voice I wanted to hear the most. Tell me, Elastigi—no… _Helen_ ,” he corrected himself, delighting in the way she blanched at hearing her name come out his mouth, “you know I have the power to either set your kids free or put them in a wheelchair for the rest of their lives. All with a flick of my finger.”

The anger that lit up Mr. Incredible’s face at Syndrome’s words had grown quite boring. The man was all emotion and absolutely no subtlety, a bleeding heart if Syndrome ever saw one… but his wife? But Helen? Now there was someone who’s raw rage could insight fear just from a single glance—and she was doing just that, fixing those harrowingly wide eyes down on Syndrome with hardly a snarl.

Wordlessly, she was daring him to do it.

Wordlessly, she was telling him he would die before they did.

The shivers that raced up Syndrome’s spine filled him with the kind of ecstasy he was longing for. “So, perhaps we can come to some sort of… understanding,” he finished amicably.

Instantly, Bob was yelling his throat out, but it was background noise. His lips were flapping, no doubt threatening Syndrome to within an inch of his life if he harmed his kids further, but neither Syndrome nor Helen paid him any mind; they were too locked into each other’s gaze to give anything else attention.

Syndrome could feel his heart beating a mile a minute, he almost grew lightheaded, but he kept the smug smirk over his lips as he met Helen’s glare head-on, refusing on principal to look away. She was trying to make him submit through sheer force of will, and truthfully, any other time he would have happily done so. He longed for a tall, beautiful woman capable of forcing him underneath her foot where he felt he belonged, and Helen checked every box and then some.

Smart, skillful, modest, beautiful, busty, full-figured, an ass that he had to figure was as soft as it was plump….When his gaze slid south, it wasn’t in submission, rather he was giving her a hint about what kind of “understanding” he meant. And Helen was far from dumb: the moment his eyes traveled down her body, she blinked and held it, then reopened her eyes in the most lethal half-lidded leer Syndrome had ever seen. He watched as she balled her gloved hands into fists, a visual of her internal struggle, only to have them go as limp as her son.

She was resigned.

He had won.

“Send them all away,” she ordered suddenly, and with an unforeseen amount of audacity, as if she had any control in the situation.

“I can send the little Supers away,” Syndrome responded giddily, struggling to keep his composure yet he could feel his face beginning to flare up. “But as for the big lunk, I think I’d rather like an audience.”

“I’m sure you would, but I won’t be able to give the performance you want unless we’re alone.”

“Performance?” Bob cut in, looking from his wife to Syndrome and back again. “I don’t—honey, what do you mean by performance?”

A crinkle of annoyance creased Syndrome’s brow. “You have to know I’m not letting you go for this—” he started warningly, only to pause when Helen shook her head.

“ _I_ don’t expect to be let go,” she clarified, refusing to meet the inquisitive stare of her husband or the confused glances of Violet and, to a lesser, more bleary extent, Dash. “I stay, they go.”

“NO!” Bob roared.

“And, purely for the sake of curiosity, but what happens should I refuse those terms?” Syndrome posited, stroking his chin with thought.

“Then I bite through my tongue and drown in my own blood.”

Hearing those words deflated Bob’s anger somewhat; he seemed to shrink in on himself with an amalgam of shock and dread, while both Violet and Dash stared with disbelief, a set of tremors shaking them both.

“M-mom, what… what are you—” Violet began hoarsely, but she was instantly silenced by the solitary finger Helen stiffly lifted, her gaze never faltering.

“Ah.” Syndrome nodded. There was no need to call her bluff, because she wasn’t bluffing. He had studied this woman before him long enough and hard enough to know that when it came down to her kids, she was as serious as a heart attack. And in this no-win situation, having her kids witness what he planned on forcibly doing to her was the same as killing them all, disrupting their whole family.

So she would ‘win’ by disrupting it first.

“Clever girl, verrrrry clever,” and he rewarded her bravado with a couple golf claps. “Very well. I’ll send your family back home first class, safe and sound. Matter of fact,” he added with a careless shrug, “once we’re done? I’ll send you back, too. It’s no fun if the hunt’s over before it can begin—it’ll give me time to make some modifications to the robot I planned on killing you all with, anyway.” Again, he cut his eye at Violet; the poor girl looked stricken. “Thanks to your daughter and her force fields, hm…”

It was nothing but hubris filling Syndrome’s words now, and he knew it, he knew he was half-heartedly monologuing, but he didn’t care. He may not yet have won the war, but by Elastigirl’s own admission, he had at least won the battle, and by God... he was going to revel in the spoils.

**Author's Note:**

> So now I guess we come to a reader’s choice, and the options arrrrrre: lewd, happy, or dark. Each option is likely going to go in a very different direction than what you're thinking, because where's the fun in the obvious, right? So, whatta you think?


End file.
